


Sorry

by SinAndSyntax



Series: Weakness [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 02:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3191615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinAndSyntax/pseuds/SinAndSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happens at a crime scene which forces Scotland Yard to reevaluate their opinions of Sherlock Holmes. Implied child abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry

Sherlock often got so absorbed in his own mind that he scarcely noticed what he was doing with his body. It was for this reason that, between rattling off complex deductions and leaning down on the floor to sniff at the dead woman's coat collar, he managed to dip his shirt into the puddle of sulfuric acid that had made this particular case so interesting. It wasn't until his crisp white shirt started to slowly disintegrate -starting from the middle, turning black and then shrivelling outwards- that Lestrade noticed.

 

"Shit, Sherlock! Take your shirt off, now!" Sherlock looked down curiously, almost lazily.  
"Oh for God's sake, you're going to get burned!" Lestrade strode forward, and began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt himself. Sniggers could be heard from the doorway, where Anderson and Donovan lounged, appearing to enjoy the show. Sherlock sneered at the smug grin on Donovan's face and took a large step back from Lestrade. "Stop panicking Lestrade, it's only a bit of acid, I've dealt with far worse", he said haughtily. Sherlock then sucked in a sharp breath, and hissed on the exhale. The acid had begun to burn his skin. His deft fingers made quick work of the rest of the shirt, and he slipped it over his shoulders and tossed it gracelessly to the floor. He then stood there awkwardly, half dressed, arms hanging limply by his sides. The other three people in the room were now staring at him, emotion clear in each of their eyes. Pity in one, horror in another, and shock in the last. 

 

Sally Donovan was shocked. As she ran her eyes down his torso, she couldn't help but admit to herself that he was an incredibly attractive man. Contrary to what one would believe from his skinny form, underneath his clothes, he was quite well built, in a sinewy kind of way. She could see he was tense from the veins standing out in his arms, his clearly defined biceps, the tension in his neck. His entire body could be described as chiselled. Yes, he was attractive, but that wasn't why Sally was shocked. She was shocked because, running through his marble-like skin, were a series of scars. And not just a few scars, either. Too many too count, crisscrossing his chest and his upper arms, little raised white lines. Some were small, the length of her little finger perhaps, and some extended the width of his chest. But the worst one, by far, lay in the area between his left nipple and his collarbone. 

 

This was what was presently making her feel nauseous, making her throat close up, and her eyes burn. A sickly feeling of guilt and horror settled over her. It was about the length of an open hand, and the height of a matchstick, obviously crudely carved with a knife, the letters wobbly and rough. Freak. Sally felt sick. Sherlock seemed to realise he was just standing there, and strode to the door. He plucked his coat up from the floor where he had left it, swung it on, and turned around to Lestrade. "Arrest the husband, she was having an affair, he got jealous. Honestly Lestrade, this was basic, have you really become so reliant on me that you haven't the mental capacity to solve a case a simple as this? Call me when there's a real challenge". He then pulled his coat closed, and billowed out the door past a gaping Anderson, as though nothing had happened. 

 

Sally realised that only a few seconds had transpired since he had ripped off his shirt. To her it had felt like hours. Her eyes drifted to the pile of slightly charred fabric on the ground, lying in a heap where it had been thrown carelessly. She turned around to meet Lestrade's eyes.   
"Christ. Just... Christ", he mumbled. Sally cleared her throat.   
"Looks like... looks like he was... abused", she was mortified to hear her voice crack on the word 'abused'. Lestrade nodded absently.   
"Well," began Anderson, loudly, "looks like the Freak's parents couldn't stand him either". Sally whirled around, only to find Lestrade was quicker in delivering a swift punch to Anderson's oblivious face. Sally didn't know what she had planned on doing, but even she knew what Anderson had just said was inappropriate, if not cruel. Lestrade was now looking like he might cry, which Sally found extremely disturbing. "Shut up Anderson. Just shut the hell up", he growled.

 

That night, as Sally lay in bed, fidgeting restlessly, the image of Sherlock's marred torso kept running through her mind. Freak. Freak. Oh God, the thought that someone had actually held him down, and carved those letters into his skin... Sally shuddered. And to think, she had been calling him that name for years, gleefully enjoying the discomfort it caused him, not realising that every time she said it, it had obviously brought back bad memories for him. She imagined he must have grown up with that word. He had been marked, branded, labelled. Was that how he thought of himself?

 

She remembered the first time she had referred to Sherlock by that name. The first day she met him, five years ago, Sherlock a young man of twenty two, and herself, twenty three. She remembered how he had run circles around all of them, solving the case in minutes, and how she had felt angry. Jealous. Embarrassed. Because this was her first day on the job, and this was her chance to prove herself to her boss, to prove that even though she was the only woman on the team, she could do just as well as any of the others. And then this complete stranger, with no professional investigative experience had waltzed in, and done her job. She remembered how, after amazing them all with his deductions, he had turned to her, looking for approval. Looking for friendship. "Freak", she had spat at him, and then turned around and walked away. But not before spotting the disappointed look on his face, and the frustration beneath the mask of contempt. Now Sally could see that look for what it was. That word had probably haunted him all his life. He had been labelled since he could talk. And then he comes to them, people who have the same interests as he does, and he shows them his talent, the thing he is better than anyone else at. And he is mocked. The same here as anywhere else. Anyone else in his life. No wonder he doesn't trust people. No wonder he doesn't let anyone behind that icy mask of his, behind the cold, uncaring persona. Because if he did, they would only hurt him. Just like Sally did.

 

The next case she saw him at was three weeks later. She stood at the entrance to the dilapidated old apartment block and watched him duck gracefully under the crime scene tape and swoop over to the door. "Sally", as per his usual greeting.  
"Sherlock". He stopped, one foot in the door, and turned to look at her. She had never called him by his given name, not in all the five years she had known him. "I just, I wanted to say I'm... sorry. About the whole... Freak... thing. I didn't know", Sally ducked her head. Sherlock looked at her curiously, as though she were an interesting microbe under his microscope. He frowned. "You obviously thought you were the first person to come up with that particular insult. I assure you Sally, you're not even remotely original. I'm well accustomed to it". And with that, he swished past her into the building, leaving her alone, to wipe at the single tear that was making its way down her cheek.


End file.
